


It's the Heat That Drives the Light

by RunMild



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, POV Second Person, Reader Is Not Frisk (Undertale)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:08:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26591941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RunMild/pseuds/RunMild
Summary: Second puberty is a bitch. That this one is caused by magic? Even bitchier."Wait, sothat'swhy I've been so horny?!"From the other room, you hear the choking sounds of a dying skeleton.
Relationships: Sans (Undertale)/Reader
Comments: 32
Kudos: 400





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title is, of course, from a Hozier song.

Going jacketless in bitter January might not be your brightest idea, but you hardly think Sans is one to talk. Monsters in basketball shorts shouldn’t throw stones at glass humans, or… something.

“I’m not wearing your jacket, Sans,” you say, firmly rebuffing his latest attempt to drape you in his ketchup-stained hoodie. “I’m fine.”

“ya look cold.” He nudges you with a dangling sleeve.

“I’m actually really warm.” You spread your arms, demonstrating your lack of chill bumps.

He doesn’t look at all comforted by this, instead grimacing up at his brother as if to say ‘ _do something._ ’

The three of you are monitoring Frisk and some monster kids as they play on the frozen playground near your apartments. It’s an okay day for it, you think; there’s enough snow for the occasional dingy snowball, but not enough to make the playground equipment unusable. They all look awfully cute in their mittens and knit caps, but to be honest, you feel okay in just your shirt sleeves.

Papyrus leans over, brow ridge drawn.

“WE ARE SIMPLY CONCERNED FOR YOUR HEALTH. HUMANS ARE VERY…” He makes a broad gesture, as if encompassing your whole person. “…DELICATE.”

“We’re really not.”

“COMPARED TO MY VERY STRONG AND NEARLY INDESTRUCTIBLE SELF, YOU ARE.” He flexes his nonexistent muscles.

You snort, but continue to ignore the jacket that Sans, having grown tired of holding, levitates in front of your face. You bat it away, but it continues to bap you like an irritating bug in a street lamp.

“Just because I’m soft and fleshy doesn’t mean I’m weak,” you say, trying and failing to skirt around the insistent piece of clothing.

“never called ya weak, pal.”

 _Bap bap bap_.

It would almost be worth the ensuing peace to just wear the damn thing, but you _aren’t_ cold, and you won’t be bullied, dammit.

“you are bein a little _boneheaded_ , though.”

“Says _you,_ ” you squawk as blue cloth covers your vision entirely.

“i did say it, yeah.”

“SANS, IF SHE DOESN’T WANT TO WEAR YOUR JACKET, WE MUST REPECT HER WISHES.”

“Thank y—”

“WE SHALL JUST HAVE TO BE EXTRA GOOD FRIENDS AND BRING HER SOUP WHEN HER FRAGILE HUMAN BODY FALLS ILL FROM EXPOSURE.”

“Hey, now—”

“you’re right, bro.”

“I USUALLY AM.”

The jacket falls from your face.

You give Sans the stink eye, but he just winks, his grin widening to shit eating proportions. You notice that he doesn’t put the jacket back on, either, the hypocrite.

“I appreciate your concern, guys.” You pat the nearest body part, which happens to be Pap’s elbow. “If I do get sick, you can remind me that you told me so.”

“AS YOUR BEST AND MOST STELLAR FRIEND, IT WOULD BE UNKIND OF ME TO GLOAT, ESPECIALLY WHEN YOU ARE UNWELL.”

“If, not when!” You laugh. “I’ll have you know that I’m very hardy.”

“if you say so,” Sans says, shrugging. “just givin you a hard-y time.”

You and Papyrus groan in tandem.

Something small and white goes flying by your head.

You blink.

On the playground, a colorful hat ducks behind a slide.

“GASP,” Papyrus says. “A DECLARATION OF WAR. AND BY MY MOST TRUSTED ALLIES, NO LESS!”

“Are you sure this is a battle you can win?” you call to the kids.

_Paff!_

You squeak as a vaguely gray chunk of snow crumbles against your face.

“WE WILL NOT BE BESTED,” Papyrus declares.

There’s a giggle and another snowball flies toward you.

You have the briefest second to concentrate, reaching for that spark inside of you, and then—

Lukewarm water spatters your face and torso.

“good one,” Sans says. You see a glowing blue snowball hovering in front of his face, frozen inches away from his smug grin.

You grimace.

“I wanted to freeze it like you,” you admit.

Before you, Papyrus charges into battle, cape flapping in a wind you’re sure wasn’t blowing a second ago. He seems to be waging an all-out war, and you duck rather than try to magic any more of the projectiles that start flying.

Sans snickers. “c’mere, i’ll cover you.”

“My hero.” You roll your eyes, but crouch beside him anyway.

He throws up a lazy hand just in time to catch a wayward snowball. It splats on an invisible shield and falls to your feet.

You nod appreciatively.

“you’ve gotten quicker with your magic,” Sans says after a moment as you both hunker in for the long haul.

“Yeah, but just heat stuff, like fire. And… melting, I guess.” You rub your nose, chagrinned. “Tori’s proud, at least.”

“that’s gotta count for something,” he says, nudging your shoulder.

“Would rather do gravity stuff,” you grumble.

“eh, don’t take it too hard. ‘s kinda a family thing.” He winks.

“Yeah, yeah.” You rub your arms absently.

Sans side eyes you.

“cold?”

“No,” you huff.

Actually, you think, it’s a little weird. The sun’s getting lower on the horizon and instead of getting chill bumps, your skin just feels… tight. Your back actually feels a little sticky with sweat, and the sensation isn’t doing anything to cool you despite the dropping temperatures.

If you actually are getting sick, you will _never_ live it down. Papyrus may be too nice to say anything, but he will wrap you up like a granny for the rest of your natural life. He’ll knit you an adorably ugly scarf for every day of the week and you’ll be honor bound to wear them any time the temperature drops below sixty.

A boney finger pokes your cheek.

“you’re goin on a face journey,” Sans says. He doesn’t let up, tugging at your face with a fair amount of interest.

“ _Leggo, weir-o_ ,” you gripe around the mushing.

A snowball whizzes into his invisible shield and explodes into bits. You hear a “ _boo_ ” from the playground.

Sans doesn’t seem to notice.

“you’re the weirdo,” he says. “humans are so—“ _Pinch._ “—weird.” _Squeeze._ “and _soft._ ”

His fingers on your skin are starting to make you feel… strange. You can feel your skin heating even more and fear steam might soon whistle out of your ears.

You swat his hand away.

God, you’re just so _… embarrassed_. Yeah, it’s gotta be embarrassment that’s curling in your gut. Just some run of the mill awkwardness that’s itching like bugs under your skin.

You try to covertly tug at your collar.

“ya feel a little warm, by the way.” Sans doesn’t look at you, but you don’t miss the slight drop in his voice.

“I’m _not_ sick.” Hopefully.

Sans makes a doubtful noise.

Cyan flashes in his eye socket and a snowball _WHAPS!_ Papyrus in the butt.

“ACK! MY HANDSOME BEHIND WILL BE AVENGED!!”

You snicker, but Sans barely grins.

It must be the tense silence that has you squirming. You rub sweaty palms on your jeans.

“…ya know, if something’s wrong, you can tell me, right?”

You stick a finger into the packed, grungy snow.

Man, would it be super inappropriate to take off your shirt right now? You have a sports bra on, at least.

You concentrate on the snow melting into the knees of your jeans instead.

“Nothing’s wrong,” you grit out. “You’re acting weird.”

“ _you’re_ acting weird.”

You cross your arms but immediately regret it; your arms are immediately muggy with sweat.

Would T-posing count as “acting weird?”

“You’re the one mother henning over nothing.”

Sans rolls his eye lights, but his shoulders lose some of their stiffness. His grin takes an exasperated edge.

“yeah, okay. it’s just…” He squints at you, or rather, at something _inside_ of you. You’ve learned that that particular look means he’s reading a soul-related thing that only monsters can see. Toriel mentioned something about him being particularly talented at reading people.

You don’t know why that makes you so nervous.

“Juuust…?” You wave him on.

“your stats—“ He motions at your chest. “—are all over the place. if you were a monster, i’d…” He rubs the back of his skull and turns away, but not before you catch his blush.

“well, let’s just say we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

You’re, if possible, even more confused.

“Why not?”

Is he… is he sweating…?

Maybe it really is warm out here.

“ehhh, well—“

“YOU WILL BE GLAD TO KNOW THAT WE HAVE COME TOGETHER TO FORM A TRUCE,” Papyrus declares, nearly scaring you out of your skin.

There are three children using him as a jungle gym, but that doesn’t slow him down as he jogs up and strikes a pose in front of your Sad Adult Fort of Invisible Magic. 

Sans’s expression can only be described as one of sheer relief.

“icy that.”

“UGH.” A dramatic face palm nearly sends a dangling bunny child flying. “I WILL EXCUSE YOUR PUNNERY AND YOUR DISAPPOINTING LACK OF TEAMWORK ON THE CONDITION THAT YOU HELP US MEET THE TERMS OF OUR CEASEFIRE.”

You reach out to straighten Frisk’s beanie and they give you a weird look. You pull it over their eyes.

“fire away, bro.”

“WE REQUIRE—DRAMATIC PAUSE—“

You snicker.

Frisk yanks their cap off and sticks their tongue out.

“—HOT COCOA!”

Your groan is lost in the chorus of cheers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There goes Mild, writing skeleton porn again. Is she okay? Should someone check on her?


	2. Chapter 2

“Oh—oh _god—_ “

You clench the arm of the couch so hard that you hear the fabric start to give. Behind you, your lover thrusts in a jagged, hurried rhythm. You spread your knees until one leg nearly falls off the edge of the cushion. Hands wrench your hips higher.

“H-harder,” you beg.

Across the room, a door opens.

He rocks into you harder, but it’s not—not _enough—_

Your ninth grade math teacher waves at you from the doorway.

You reach down to rub your clit, desperate.

“Please, please, _please—_ “

The microwave goes off.

“Just making popcorn for the class,” Ms. Bell says.

Your partner presses your face into the pillows, doubling down, and you chase the feeling, but the microwave won’t—

—stop—

— _beeping—_

Your phone alarm wakes you with a start.

“Jesus _fuck,_ ” you inform the room at large.

Your day continues in the same vein of frustration—sexual and otherwise. Your work clothes feel rough against your oversensitive skin and you continue to sweat like it’s July instead of January. To top it all off, no amount of coffee can make up for the exhaustion that has taken up residence in your very bones.

Your coworkers don’t waste any time remarking on your lackluster appearance.

“You look tired, hun.”

You shoot Gina a lukewarm glare.

“I am.”

She tosses her plastic stir stick in the trash and leans against the counter. You’re the only ones in the break room.

“Have you tried melatonin pills? Worked for me.”

You dump an extra scoop of grounds into the coffee maker and flick the power switch with a little more force than necessary.

“I slept a ton last night,” you tell her. “That’s not the problem.”

“Sleep apnea maybe?” She doesn’t make any move to leave.

You grit your teeth.

“Doubtful.”

“You’d have to do a sleep study to know for sure,” Gina says. “My cousin did one. Sleeps with a whole machine strapped to him now.”

You make a noncommittal sound.

“Course, my friend Dee—you remember her? She temped here last year. Don’t know why they didn’t hire her on full time—“

You will the coffee to percolate faster.

“—she had an issue with her thyroid, turns out, and—“

You figure there’s enough coffee for a mugful, at least. You stuff a couple of cream and sugar packets into your pockets and dump what’s in the pot into your mug. Coffee splatters on the counter and you nearly crawl out of your skin in frustration.

“—was a real hassle, but we were just glad it wasn’t cancer, you know? And then, of course, she _did_ get cancer, but it was in her ovaries and she’d been wanting to get her tubes tied, so—“

You snatch a handful of napkins from the dispenser.

“—husband threw a fit, would you believe? Anyway, they ended up getting a divorce, and now she’s in Bali with some cute little Italian man she met—“

Smoke curls around your fingers and it’s all the warning you get before your napkins go up in flames.

It takes Gina several second to even register the problem. She makes a little “ah!” sound, hand over her chest.

You dump the contents ofyour mug over the mess. The fire fizzles out; only the smell of slightly burnt coffee remains.

You want to cry.

“What on earth—“ Gina starts, but you head her off.

“These faulty outlets, am I right?”

Never mind the fact that the only outlet nearby is the one behind the coffee maker.

Gina looks bewildered, mouth just barely open and blessedly— _blessedly_ —silent.

“Would you mind paging housekeeping?” you ask, gesturing to the puddle that’s dripping onto the floor. You wad up the smoldering evidence and toss it in the trash. “I have to get back.”

You leave her standing in the alcove of a break room and slink back to your desk.

9:27 - _Magic question – can I call?_

You jiggle your leg waiting for an answer. Sweat gathers at the backs of your knees.

9:28 - _Certainly._

You duck down in your cubicle and hit the call button.

“Are you alright, my dear?” Tori’s voice washes over you and you can’t help but relax a tiny bit.

“Hi, Tori,” you say, voice cracking. “I’m having a little—uh, that is— _Ihadalittlebitofamagicalincident._ ”

“Oh my.”

There’s a faint echo on her end and you wonder if she’s at the embassy today. You immediately feel guilty for interrupting.

“Uh, you’re probably in the middle of something. I can—“

“No, no, I am always available if you need me, child. Tell me what happened.”

You explain, briefly, what you’re experiencing.

“Hm,” she says. “The magic outbursts sound like standard stress responses, and the overheating may be due to the fact that your talents tend toward fire.”

That… makes a little sense, you guess.

“Is something bothering you, my dear? Something that would cause prolonged stress?”

The only thing bothering you, you want to say _, is_ your so-called stress responses.

“Um, maybe work?” you say instead.

Gina had been annoying you prior to this last incident, anyway.

“That could do it,” Tori says, a smile in her voice. “Now I must go, but I will always make time for you if you need to talk.”

“Thanks, Tori,” you say, a little hoarse. You blink away a mist of tears.

What _are_ these hormone swings? You thought you left them behind with your teenage years.

“Will you be available Friday? I was thinking about having a little dinner party—just with a few close friends, of course.” You can make a fairly educated guess as to the guest list. “If you’re still having magic troubles, we can get to the bottom of it then.”

“That sounds… really good, actually.” Your shoulders slump in relief and you run a hand over your face.

Now, at least, you have something to get you through the rest of this week.

“Take care of yourself, child.”

“You, too.”

An email goes out less than an hour later about limiting personal phone calls at work.

You delete it.

You’re sick.

You _have_ to be; there’s just no way around it. You’ve felt fuzzy and overwarm all day, accomplishing maybe _half_ the work you normally manage. Even as you duck into the corner store, you can feel your temperature tick up by degrees.

Which, of course, means that you run into Sans the second you turn down the canned food aisle.

_Fuuuuu—_

“oh, hey. canned you give me your opinion on these raviol— _woah._ ” He pulls up short, eyelights shrinking to pinpricks. “you don’t look so hot.”

“Thanks,” you say hoarsely.

“you worked all day like this?” He steps closer, gaze flicking up and down your sweaty, disheveled form.

“It’s gotten worse since this morning,” you admit.

His eyes are frozen on your chest. You know he’s just doing the whole soul-check thing, but it doesn’t make the chest staring any less weird, especially with this level of intensity.

You wave your hand in front of his face when he continues to gawk.

“Hey. Rude.”

He jerks, his eyes darting to meet your own. His features flicker through a rapid series of expressions—shock, confusion, embarrassment…?—before he seems to rein himself in.

There’s a definite blue hue creeping across his face.

He clears his nonexistent throat. “uh, how long have you been feelin… like this? just since the park?”

You shrug limply.

“Dunno, I’ve felt off for a few days. Started the whole fever thing with you guys at the park, though.”

You don’t know why that seems to make him even more uncomfortable.

“Tori says it’s probably stress,” you offer.

“hm, yeah. could be it.” He doesn’t look convinced.

You wonder what he’s thinking.

“…’Kay,” you say finally. “Well this has been fun, but I’m gonna go buy this Nyquil and sleep for a year.”

He seems to shake out of his stupor as you make to walk past.

“hey—wait.” He snags your wrist.

You shiver.

“lemme take you home, at least.”

“I drove here,” you protest.

He hasn’t let go of your arm and it’s like every bit of extra heat under your skin is concentrating where your flesh meets bone. It’s a little distracting.

“c’mon, what kinda pal would i be if i let you back on the road like this?” He edges a little closer and nabs the Nyquil bottle out of your loose grip.

He smells really nice, you think. Like laundry. Instead of a warm human scent, there’s something salty, like… well, probably like ketchup.

You tip into him a little.

“woah,” he says, looking way more panicked than you think the situation really warrants.

“Okay,” you rasp as he tugs you along to the register. “You can take me home.”

You don’t know why that seems to make him more nervous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I'm just gonna... go ahead and change the rating.


	3. Chapter 3

“I have a weird question.”

“shoot.”

You lean back against your counter, an empty medicine cup dangling from your fingers.

“Are you ace?”

He looks at you blankly.

“Asexual?” you prompt.

His eye lights shrink. He reaches blindly behind him for the fridge handle, fumbling for a moment before he finds the jumbo-sized ketchup in the door compartment.

“If that’s too personal, you can tell me to shove off.”

You boost yourself onto the counter, leaving your shoes on the tile below. It would probably be in poor taste to unzip your dress and shove it down to your waist, so instead you just eye the condensation on the ketchup bottle wistfully.

There’s a hint of fang when Sans takes a swig, and your temperature ratchets further.

You quietly beat your head against the cupboard.

“uhhh, not… exactly?” he says after a fortifying gulp. He licks his teeth.

“Huh,” you say, eyeing his mouth.

He stares at some distant point beyond your left shoulder, a blush creeping over his face.

“i… uh, monsters? we’re not inherently… sexual creatures. not like humans.” His fingers tap on the ketchup bottle. “we reproduce with our souls, not our bodies, so it’s not like, uh… yeah, this isn’t a conversation i was expecting to have.”

He huffs out a slightly manic, humorless laugh.

“Sorry,” you say, completely unapologetic.

You slide back off of the counter, eyes on Sans.

He swallows, nonexistent throat clicking.

“So you’re not ace, but you’re not “inherently sexual?””

You move closer.

“uh, haha, _well—_ “ He doesn’t take his eyes off of you now. “monster souls are empathetic. our souls—and by extension, our magic—shapes and is shaped _by_ those around us.”

You stop, hovering less than a foot away.

“So your sexuality just… _changes_? Seems unfair.” You’ve gotten quieter, the space between you hot and close.

“no, that’s not—our sexuality _is_ our partner, or partners. whether the relationship is a human’s idea of sexual or not.”

You blink.

“Oh, so you’re demi.”

Sans chuckles and gives you a fond look. You can’t help but notice the faint blue glow around his face, so close that it’s probably illuminating your own.

“humans are so weird.”

You don’t think it’s your imagination that his voice has gotten deeper even as it’s gotten quieter.

“Says the skeleton monster.”

“…touché.”

You only realize how uncharacteristically close you’ve gotten when you can smell the uncapped ketchup hanging loosely in his grasp. You’re both breathing way too fast to be casual.

“Can I—“

“do you—“

You both stop.

Cold glass touches your fingers, and you blindly grasp it. Sans doesn’t offer any resistance as you tug the ketchup bottle away, a sure sign that he’s distracted.

You bring the bottle to your lips.

“ _ngh,_ ” Sans chokes out, and you hardly get a sip in—which is, frankly, enough—before the bottle is wrenched away, sliding across the counter by an unseen force, and you’re tugged forward mere inches, and—

Fffffuck, you didn’t expect kissing a skeleton to be this _good._

You should have suspected that kissing _Sans_ would be.

He grips your chin and tilts you into the kiss, his magic surging across your skin like a full body caress. If you felt hot before, it’s nothing compared to the inferno that sparks and rages inside of you now.

Your arms shoot out, one hand grasping the counter behind Sans, the other fisting into the front of his hoodie. There’s no space between you, seemingly no oxygen to feed the fire in your veins, but still you _burn—_

You let out a breathy gasp when Sans nips at your lower lip, his other hand cupping the back of your head.

“ _fuck,_ ’s hot,” he rumbles.

You can’t help but agree in every sense of the word. Sweat beads on your forehead and drips down your spine. Your chest heaves like you’ve run a 5k.

You’d feel gross if it didn’t feel so goddamn _good._

Sans tastes less of ketchup than you might have expected, and also exhibits far more energy in kissing you than you’ve seen him display anywhere else.

He’s right; it’s really, _really_ hot.

You’re left gasping in the wake of his mouth when he trails down the column of your throat, his fingers pulling at the nape of your neck to guide you. You shudder as he tastes you, bare toes curling on the tile when his jaw parts and you can _feel_ the sharp canines that he keeps hidden under a benign smile.

“Fu— _cking hell,_ ” you gasp.

He bites down.

Your hands snap to his shoulders, your hips arching against his without your permission. The air around you hits a boiling point, and you can almost _taste_ the smoke and ozone—

You don’t even comprehend what’s happened at first.

One moment, you’re pressed so tightly against Sans that you’re unsure where one of you begins and the other ends, and the next, you’re shoved back, feet skidding on tile, a ringing in your ears that turns out to be more than shock.

“ _shit_ —ah, _fuck,_ hang on—“ Sans’s normal baritone sounds like gravel.

You can barely hear it over the _fucking fire alarm_ , though.

The hand towel by your sink has gone up in flames, burning as if someone dipped it in gasoline. Sans swats the towel into the sink and flips the water on. As you watch, hazy and disoriented, the half-written grocery list on your fridge starts to singe and curl. It’s nowhere near the towel.

A stack of takeout napkins crackles to life like a tiny bonfire.

Slow as molasses, you look down do your fisted hands. Realization dawns.

Oh god, oh god, _oh god—_

Everything flammable that’s not nailed down goes flying to the sink, Sans’s eyes dark but for the flare of cyan flame.

You think you might be hyperventilating.

“woah, _woah_ —hey, stay with me, now—“

Hands fall to your shoulders, and you realize you’re bent at the waist. You press your face into the conveniently close hoodie at his midsection. 

“you’re okay.” A hand curls over your head. “it’s just a little magic burst, shh.”

The alarm cuts off abruptly.

“hey, hey, look at me.”

You shake your head, trying to breathe through the fabric at his waist. You still feel like you’re coming out of your skin, like everything is right at the surface. You can’t tell if you’re turned on or terrified.

Bony fingers curl at your chin, pull you back a few inches.

“hey,” he says again, and this time he smiles just a tick. He crouches, knees touching yours.

Your lip quivers and he smooths a thumb over it.

“this kinda thing happen to monsters, sometimes,” he says, voice low and even. His thumb continues to stroke your kiss swollen mouth.

“I’m a fucking fire hazard.” You’re too tired to put any real heat (ha) in your tone.

Sans makes a quiet little tutting sound, and you’re reminded that he all but raised his brother. This probably isn’t his first magic flare-up rodeo.

You lean into his hand.

“I must seem like a baby, huh?” you ask, a bit watery. You’re not sure if it’s the magic drain or the medicine, but there’s a persistent drag to your eyelids when you blink up at him.

Sans rasps out a laugh.

“i can’t tell you how wrong you are.”

You flush.

“Yeah?”

The thumb on your lip presses a little in emphasis.

“yeah.”

He looks at you for a moment, his expression shifting from fond to pensive.

“we need to talk to tori, though. the sooner the better.”

You hum, eyes shutting.

“We have dinner plans with her Friday,” you remind him.

“…it’s only tuesday, sweetheart.”

Your eyes pop open.

_Sweetheart._

Oh, that’s deliciously new.

You try not to look as effected as you are.

“I thought you said this was normal?”

“that’s… true,” he hedges.

“But not so normal it can wait a few more days?” you press, starting to feel the stress creep back up your spine. You tamp it down, terrified for the fate of your belongings—not to mention your entire _apartment_ —if your abilities get out of hand again. 

He lets out a long breath.

“you’re… you’ll probably be fine,” he says, finally. He looks over to the smoldering pile in the sink.

“I just gotta keep my stress levels down, right?” You choke on a half-hysterical giggle. “No more… excitement.”

He cuts his eyes back to you. The glowing pips that are his pupils are shrunk to pinpricks. His brow looks pinched.

He seems to be talking mostly to himself when he says, “stress. yeah.” He rubs a hand over his mouth, frowning.

“Unless…?” you prompt, giving him the chance to let you in on his thoughts.

“hm?” he jerks back to the present. “oh. no, tori’s prob’ly right. she has experience with mages. knows way more than the rest of us about how magic interacts with human souls.”

He sounds like he’s trying to convince himself. You try not to let that worry you.

He tugs you upright to your muffled protest.

“if you fall asleep on the tile, i _will_ call you a babybones,” he threatens, but it’s softened by the way he guides you down the hall, hand splayed over your lower back.

You let yourself be herded into your bedroom, too tired to care when, after a moment of rummaging, Sans presses soft pajamas into your hands. 

“i’ll get you some water,” he says and pads back into the kitchen.

You stare down at your favorite sleep shirt with the fuzzy concentration of the sick or inebriated. You don’t want to put these on; you want to strip down to your altogether and lay under your ceiling fan until your temperature drops to a reasonable level. _But_ , you have to remind yourself, Sans is here, and he likely won’t leave until he’s satisfied that you’re all bedded down and taken care of.

You can’t decide if you’re exasperated or endeared.

When Sans returns, you’re changed and laying on top of your covers, already half asleep.

“hey, sit up a little.”

You grumble, unmoving.

A cold, sweating glass balances on your forehead.

This is an improvement, you think.

“c’mon, just drink a little,” he says. “you’ve been sweating all day and you just used a chunk of magic.”

Water drips down into your hairline. Boney fingers follow it, scraping gently over your scalp.

You sigh and relent.

“You’re annoyingly persistent,” you say around the rim of the glass.

“you like it.” He shrugs.

You hate that he’s right.

You roll your eyes, but don’t object.

“you going into work tomorrow?” Sans asks as you guzzle the water.

You shrug, clinking the empty glass onto your bedside table. You ignore the significant look Sans gives it, and the knowing grin on his face.

“Probably,” you say, before he can be too smug. “If I don’t burn the apartment down in the middle of the night.”

Sans looks like he wants to argue, but visibly stops himself.

“then i’ll take you to and from.”

“What? No, you—“

“you left your car at the store,” he reminds you. “and tomorrow’s spaghetti night, anyway.”

It’s true; you come around every Wednesday for “SPAGHETTI AND FELLOWSHIP.”

“you gonna argue s’more?” sans asks as you sag back into the pillows. His voice says he knows he’s won.

“Fuck you,” you murmur.

You’re asleep before you can hear his reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ngl, kinda forgot about this WIP, what with The Depression Fog. Thankfully, I had parts of this chapter and next chapter written or I would've been hella lost. As it is, I still had to rummage around in the ole brainpan for what I'd originally intended and was just like, "listen, if I can't remember that bit, then it wasn't important." Which I'm sure is. Fine.
> 
> ...Yeah, it's fine.
> 
> Anyway, come bug me on tumblr. Runmild is my main, catch-all account, but conficdential is my self-proclaimed "horny eldritch side blog."

**Author's Note:**

> There goes Mild, writing skeleton porn again. Is she okay? Should someone check on her?


End file.
